u/CompetitionTrue7021

It’s always exciting to see two legendary heroes clash. There’s really no disputing that. When two forces of this caliber finally meet on the battlefield, you know you’re in for something special.

Which brings us to tonight’s fight.

Context: After Katakros’s incredible winning streak against the forces of the Eightpoints, all while the Everchosen was absent, Archaon finally returns.

And he’s pissed.

>The tyrant of the Eightpoints advanced, his blazing eyes fixed upon Katakros, the sheer force of his hatred turning the air to a sweltering haze.

>

>Katakros only watched, impassive, as his army collapsed around him. The daemon tide had broken the Mortek shieldwall and riotous, howling shapes swept across his lines, slaughtering as they went. As the Everchosen pressed closer, he dictated some final observations to his Gnosis Scrollbearer.

>

>‘Palisade of blades ineffective against daemonic attacks,’ he said. ‘Concentration of Crawler bombardments far more effectual.’

>Archaon was only twenty paces away now, the ranks of Katakros’ personal guard little more than a smouldering ruin of charred bones. The Mortarch gestured forwards with Inda-Khaat, and his attendants drew their weapons and advanced towards the foe. His Prime Necrophoros, bearing aloft the Mortarch’s personal banner, managed to gouge a great wound in Dorghar’s flank before a backhand swing of the Everchosen’s blade took off his skull. Karash, his Liege-Immortis, exchanged a flurry of blows with the lord of the Eightpoints but was soon bitten in half by the tyrant’s daemonic beast.

>

>The Mortarch’s attendants dropped their accoutrements of service and hurled themselves at the Everchosen in defence of their master; one by one, they met a violent end. Finally, only the Mortarch remained. Katakros shrugged off his robe and stepped forwards.

>

>‘Know that your end will be a slow and torturous one, trespasser,’ growled Archaon. Katakros merely raised his ensorcelled shield and awaited his enemy’s strike. The tyrant’s mount struck with fearsome swiftness. Katakros fended off the slavering jaws of one chimeric head with the Shield Immortis and sank his glaive into the beast’s neck.

>

>As the beast reared away, Archaon slammed his burning blade into the Mortarch’s shoulder, gouging through bone and armour. Katakros ducked aside as that dread sword lashed out again and again, each subsequent blow missing him by mere inches.

>

>And so it went: strike, parry and cleaving blow, a duel of impossible speed and fury. Here, before the gates of the Varanspire, there could be only one victor. Dorghar struck, and Katakros raised the Shield Immortis a fraction too slowly. Monstrous reptilian jaws clamped around his chest. He felt them crunch through his armoured body, agony searing through him as acidic drool poured into his form.

>Another head clamped down and tore Inda-Khaat from his grasp. Impaled and helpless, the Mortarch was lifted bodily to meet the pitiless, burning gaze of the Everchosen.

>

>‘Not… so easy,’ Katakros gasped. Then the Slayer of Kings descended and blackness consumed him.

By now, it's no secret that Magnus and his Legion were destined for Tzeentch from the very beginning. Most people know that, but far fewer understand how Tzeentch orchestrated it. The novel provides countless diabolical examples of his subtle manipulation.

Today, I'd like to highlight one such example because it didn't just shape the structure of the entire Legion, it also transformed the society of Prospero throughout the Great Crusade.

That being the structure of the 5 cults of the legion.

This covers Chapter 17 (pg.140-142).

Context: During one of his lessons with Ahriman, the remembrancer Lemuel was training to develop his foresight using the tarot. Their exercise gradually shifted into a discussion about Prospero, specifically Magnus's first journey across the planet after his arrival.

Ahriman began by explaining Prospero's history before Magnus's coming, a tale that captivated Lemuel and left him eager to hear more.

Ahriman declined, explaining that he would rather let the newly arrived Magnus recount the story himself, much to Lemuel's surprise.

>"I walked for hundreds of miles, travelling roads that passed through broken cities of iron skeletons of tall towers, empty palaces and grand amphitheatres. It was a civilisation of great worth, but it had fallen in a single day, not an uncommon fate among worlds during the madness of Old Night.

> I came at last to a city, a sprawling ruin at the foot of a cliff that seemed familiar, though I had never before set foot beyond the walls of Tizca. I spent a day and a night wandering its forsaken streets, the shadow-haunted buildings and empty homes that echoed with the last breaths of those who had dwelled within them. It touched me in a way I had not thought possible.

>These people had lived sure in the knowledge that they had nothing to fear, that they were masters of their destinies. The coming of Old Night changed all that. It had shown them how horribly vulnerable they were. In that moment. I vowed I would master the powers I had at my command, so that I would never fall prey. as they had fallen, to the vagaries of an ever-changing universe. I would face such threats and overcome them."

>Again, Lemuel felt the full force of the primarch's confidence, as if it was suffusing his skin and invigorating his entire body.

>"I climbed a slender pathway up the cliff and came to a bend in the road, where a long-dead sculptor had erected a tall statue of a great bird carved from multicoloured stone. It was a splendid creature with outstretched wings and the graceful neck of a swan. It perched precariously on the edge of the cliff. This statue had endured for thousands of years, rocking and swaying, but always keeping its balance perfectly. But no sooner had I beheld its grandeur than it toppled from its plinth and was dashed to pieces at the bottom of the cliff, far, far below. The sight of that falling statue filled me with an almost inconsolable sense of loss I could not explain. I abandoned my trek into the mountains and returned to the base of the cliff, where, needless to say, the statue lay smashed into many pieces.

>

>"Where it had hit, the ground was covered with a carpet of shards, some small and some large. but shards and shards and more shards for as far as a man could walk in an hour. I spent the whole day just looking at the shards, measuring them and feeling the weight of them, and just pondering why the statue had chosen that moment to fall."

>

>Magnus paused, his eye misty and distant as he relived the memory.

>

>"You say 'chosen' as though the statue had been waiting for you," said Lemuel. "Isn't it possible that it was a coincidence?"

>

>"Surely Ahriman has taught you that there are no such things as coincidences."

>

>"I mentioned it once or twice, yes," said Ahriman dryly.

>

>"I spent the night there and awoke the next morning full of enthusiasm. I spent many days on this carpet of broken stone shards, and eventually I noticed a very strange thing. There were three large stones on the ground, forming a triangle that was precisely equilateral. I was amazed. Looking further, I found four white stones arranged in a perfect square. Then I saw that by disregarding two of the white stones and thinking of a pair of grey stones a metre over, it was an exact rhombus! And, if I chose this stone, and that stone, and that one, and that one and that one I had a pentagon as large as the triangle. Here a small hexagon, and there a square partially inside the hexagon, a decagon, two triangles interlocked. And then a circle, and a smaller circle within the circle, and a triangle within that which had a red stone, a grey stone and a white stone.

>

>"I spent many hours finding even more designs that became infinitely more complex as my powers of observation grew with practice. Then I began to log them in my grimoire; and as I counted designs and described them, the pages began to fill as the sun made countless passages across the sky. Days passed, but my passion for the designs I was seeing was all-consuming."

>

>"And that's how Amon found him," said Ahriman, "squatting in a pile of broken stones."

>

>"Amon?" asked Lemuel. "The captain of the 9th Fellowship?"

>

>"Yes, and my tutor on Prospero," said Magnus.

>

>Lemuel frowned at this apparent contradiction, but said nothing as Magnus continued.

>

>"I had begun my second grimoire when Amon found me. Now, Amon is a quiet, private fellow, not easily given to company. Like many such solitary men, he is a poet and deeply interested in the hidden nature of things. When I saw him, I cried, 'Amon, come quickly! I have discovered the most wondrous thing in the universe.' He hurried over to me, anxious to see what it was.

>

>"I showed him the carpet of stones, but Amon only laughed and said, 'It is nothing but scattered shards of stone! I took his hand and proceeded to show my old tutor the harvest of my many days study. When Amon saw the designs he turned to my grimoires and by the time he was finished with them, he too was overwhelmed."

>

>As much as Lemuel was having trouble following Magnus' logic, it was impossible not to be swept up by his enthusiasm. He saw that Ahriman was similarly carried along by the irresistible tide of the primarch's passion for his tale.

>

>"Now Amon was much moved," said Magnus, "and he began to write poetry about each of the incredible designs. As he wrote and contemplated, I became sure that the designs must mean something. Such order and beauty was too monumental to be senseless. The designs were there, the workings of the universe laid bare. Together, Amon and I returned home, where he read his poetry, and I showed the masters of Tizca the workings in my grimoires. These were great men, and their love of beauty and nature was marvellous to behold. So amazed were they that they joined me on a pilgrimage back to the cliff where the statue had fallen. The shards were just as I had described them, and the masters of Tizca were overcome with emotion, filling their own grimoires with fantastical writing. Some wrote about triangles, others described 'the circles, while yet others concentrated all their attention on the glittering spectrum of coloured stones."

>

>Magnus directed all his attention on Lemuel, his amber eye flickering with internal fires.

>

>"Do you know what they said to me?" asked Magnus.

>

>"No," breathed Lemuel, hardly daring to add his voice to the telling.

>

>Magnus leaned down.

>

>"They said. "How blind we have been. All who could see the designs knew that they had to have been put there by a Primordial Creator, for nothing but such a great force could create this immense beauty!"

>

>Lemuel could picture the scene, the sheer immensity of the cliff, the broken carpet of multi-coloured shards and the awed gathering of students of the esoteric and the outlandish. He sensed their awe and felt the tide of history rising up to sweep away the old beliefs and leave a new way in its wake. Lemuel felt as though he were there, as though he inhabited the body of one of the venerable philosophers of Tizca, and found his mind opening to a host of new possibilities, like a blind man suddenly shown the sun.

>

>"It was amazing," he whispered.

>

>"That it was, Lemuel. That it was," said Magnus, pleased he truly appreciated the significance of what he was being told. "It was a great moment in the history of Prospero, but as is the way of history, nothing of import is ever achieved without bloodshed."

>

>Lemuel felt his chest constrict with panic, feeling the horrible sensation of impending danger, as though he stood on the cusp of an abyss, waiting for a shove in the back.

>

>"We had been lax in our mental discipline," said Magnus, and a trace of sadness entered his voice. "Such was our excitement at what I had found that we allowed our guard to drop."

>

>"What happened?" asked Lemuel, almost afraid of the answer

>

>. "The psychneuein," said Magnus. "They were drawn to us in their thousands, blackening the sky with their numbers as they descended like a plague from ancient rimes."

>

>Lemuel drew in a breath, picturing the dark swathes of psy-predators as they swarmed from their darkened caves, organically shifting clouds of deadly clades, the relentless buzzing of thousands of crystalline wings the sound of inevitable doom.

>

>"The males swarmed in, a hurricane of snapping mandibles and tearing claws, and fifty men died in the time it takes to draw breath. Behind the males came the females, engorged with clutch upon clutch of immaterial eggs. Their furious reproductive hunger was insatiable, and dozens of my friends fell to their knees in horror as they felt the psychneuein eggs take root in their brains. Their screams will stay with me forever, Lemuel. It is the sound of brilliant men who know that soon they will be raving madmen, their brains pulped masses of digestible tissue."

>

>A hushed silence filled the library, as the visceral terror of that notion took hold.

>

>Magnus poured wine for them all before continuing.

>

>"The beasts swirled around us, battering us with psychic thrusts, scrabbling at our mental barriers to seed our minds with their eggs, and only the strongest of us remained. Amon and eight of the masters of Tizca stood with me, and as the psychneuein attacked again, I knew this was what I had been seeking all along, a true test of my abilities. I would finally discover whether I had limits. I would see if I was the master of my powers or was to be found wanting."

>

>To look at Magnus as he told his story, Lemuel couldn't believe that such a warrior could ever be found wanting. Even telling the story gave his skin a faint luminosity, a heat that flowed through his veins. Magnus amber eye had darkened to a fiery orange, the glittering sparks in its depths now swimming in his pupil.

>

>Then, as the psychneuein came at us again, something magnificent happened. I felt something move within me, I felt changed, as though an immense power that had lain within me, dormant and untapped, surged to life. As I contemplated the moment of my death, raging fires erupted from my hands. I hurled torrents of flame into the sky, as though I had always known I had such powers, and smote hundreds of psychneuein to ruin with every gesture.

>

>"Memphia and Cythega, masters who had seen the patterns in the red stones, stood at my side, and walls of flame sprang up at their command. Ahtep and Luxanhtep plucked beasts from the air and dashed them on the rocks with the power of their minds, for they had found the spiral patterns of white stones. Hastar and Imhoden had seen the eight-angled crown of shards and willed the vital fluids within the psychneuein to boil within their exo-skeletons. Amon had been first among the hidden masters to see the patterns in the shards, and his mastery of them was second only to mine. Images of the future and imminent danger seared though his mind, and he cried words of warning to his fellows, telling them of dangers to come and of how they might avoid them.

>

>"Phanek and Thothmes had seen the dance of squares, circles and triangles, the interaction of line and curve speaking to them of the hidden thoughts of all. They sensed the lust within the psychneuein to plant their psychic seed within our minds, the relentless animal hunger that drove them to feed and propagate. They reached into the minds of the beasts and twisted their perceptions so that they became blind to us.

>

>"The cults of the Thousand Sons," said Lemuel. "That's where they came from."

>

>"Just so," said Magnus. "The subtle nuances of the Great Ocean were revealed to me that day, and when we retumed to Tizca the members of my fellowship returned to their pyramid libraries to contemplate what they had learned. I watched over their deliberations and guided their studies, for I had seen the patterns of the broken statue first and knew better than any man how to wield the power of the aether. The nine masters devoted their every waking moment to what they had learned in the desolate wastelands, honing their unique abilities to become the first Magister Templi of the Prosperine cults.

>

>"As word of their power spread throughout the adepts of Tizca, devotees flocked to study at their feet, hungry to learn the new ways to harness the power of the Great Ocean."

In light of the recent lore excerpt from the newest Hedonites of Slaanesh battletome, I thought I'd share this older passage that doesn't seem to get talked about nearly as much.

Which is baffling, considering it features a Chaos God appearing in person to have a little chat with the Everchosen himself.

Context: After a long and relentless search, Archaon has finally managed to locate and breach Slaanesh's prison. Knowing he has only a limited amount of time to accomplish his goal, he presses forward without hesitation. Touch by his intrusion, Slaanesh decides to strike up a conversation with him while he works to set it's free.

>At the end of a gleaming platform of polished marble was a great chain, formed by woven strands of umbral magic. It arced out into empty air, trailing across the twilit sky where it disappeared into inky blackness. The night rippled with lurid colour, and something impossibly vast stretched langurously, pulling the chain taut. The Everchosen could make out a form within the roiling sky – something sinuous and terribly beautiful, twisted in the contortions of infinite pain and pleasure.

>Two blazing pools of violet light blinked open and fixed upon the Everchosen.

>‘So, you have come for me at last, dearling,’ the Dark Prince said in a voice that rang out like a discordant note.

>‘I am touched.’

>‘I come for my purpose, not yours,’ said the Everchosen.

>‘Always so bold,’ Slaanesh purred. ‘So… determined. My brothers have ever been suspicious of that, but I alone appreciate your single-mindedness. Some might even call it obsession.’

>‘I should leave you to rot here,’ Archaon growled, angered by the god’s insouciant air.

>‘Come now, we both know that you would not be so foolish. You need me, oh glorious Everchosen. Just as I need you. How I treasure our bond.’ Archaon stepped to the chain that stretched before him and drew the Slayer of Kings.

>‘Do you truly think so little of my captors?’ sighed Slaanesh. ‘Swords will not aid you here, not even your fine little blade. This is the Chain of Leashed Wrath. Only one of my brother Khorne’s wrathful spawn may cleave it, and, as you know, he would never aid me willingly. I have tricked the dull-witted brute into doing my bidding once before, but even he is not so foolish as to fall for my deceit a second time.’

>Archaon aimed the Slayer of Kings at the chain and a black comet struck from the sky. Dorghar, Steed of the Apocalypse, fell upon the shadow-links, grasping them between the teeth of its rightmost head, that which had once belonged to one of the fiercest of the Blood God’s servants. It shook its sulphur-dripping jaws to and fro, and with a sound like shattering crystal, the wisps of twilight magic came apart.

>Slaanesh groaned exultantly, the god’s serpentine form shivering in delight.

>‘Oh, very well done, my beloved,’ the Dark Prince hissed.

>Archaon stepped forward, ready to swing himself up upon the back of Dorghar and seek out the next chain.

>Before he made it three paces, the Eye of Sheerian– embedded in Archaon’s iron crown – flared, the sorcerous device sending a lance of agony through the

>Everchosen’s skull. With the pain came a vision as stark as it was troubling. He saw the Varanspire aflame and a shadow of death cast across the Empty Throne.

>The Eightpoints was under attack.

>The vast, ruined stronghold known as the Jade Abbey is larger than many cities. Its endless flooded corridors and sprawling grounds house more secrets than one could uncover in a lifetime. Nowhere is this truer than in the mortuary-garden of Saint's Rest - a place where the heroes of the Abbey were once interred.

>The common folk of Ghyran once delighted in tales of the ancient champions of the Jade Circle, the company of mystical knights and priests who founded the Jade Abbey. There was a time when their spiral sigil was a welcome sight across Ghyran, a symbol of spiritual purity, martial honour and hope. That changed with the rise of Gelgus Pust-a traitor from within the Circle's own ranks who would all but wipe out his former comrades and transform their stronghold into a ruined den of disease and sorrow. In time, the names and deeds of the Circle's legendary heroes were lost to history.

>By the time of Pust's rise, however, the Jade Circle was already long past its glorious heyday. It had not produced a leader worthy of acclaim in many centuries, largely because the prosperity and security of the stable Sigmarite civilisation left little need for saints or saviours. After all, what use are heroes

>without monsters to fight or great crises to resolve? The holy icons of the bygone days had passed their seats on to lesser men, more concerned with riches and comfort than the betterment of mortalkind. Gelgus Pust was only the last and most obvious symptom of this slow existential decay.

>Still, the Circle had been led by legends once, and these warriors, leaders and clerics of old were interred within Saint's Rest. Curated and maintained by the Circle's most pious priests, this sombre yet beautiful place contained the tombs of many luminaries. Those laid to rest within included High Abbot Lucar the Lame, who had faced down the Beast of Blindmoor with naught but a sling and seven stones; Sister Sulm, who cured the Shaking Plague with a salve of her own tears; Malletta Oakleaf, bane of beastfolk and some say the finest horse rider the Abbey ever produ produced. The final saint to be buried within was Yondara Tylis, who met her end whilst fighting Gelgus Pust and his minions in the last, desperate hours of the Circle's existence.

>Saint Yondara's demise proved the death knell for the Jade Circle, who were wiped out by Past and his allies in the one-sided slaughter that followed. Much of Saint's Rest-like the rest of the Jade Abbey was sacked and burned, though the fact that the burial chambers reached deep underground and were protected by cunning traps and magical defences meant that some relics of the age went untouched. Still retaining a fragment of its holy power, the site projected an aura of purity that caused Pust's servants tremendous pain if they lingered too long within its walled gardens. Most stayed away, preferring to wallow in the pools of slime that slowly spread through the Abbey's lower levels.

>THERE IS SO LITTLE LEFT OF THE LEGACY MY CIRCLE HOPED TO LEAVE TO THE REALMS. PERHAPS THE ONLY PROOF OF THE GOOD WE DID CAN BE FOUND IN SAINT'S REST, THOUGH EVEN THAT DECAYS AS THE LONG YEARS PASS. I WOULD PRESERVE THAT FINAL ECHO OF OUR HONOUR, IF I COULD

>-Inara Sion, last of the Jade Circle

Now, I don't have to tell anyone familiar with Nagash that making a deal with him is a terrible idea.

But what happens when you decide the rewards far outweigh the consequences? Well... you get this.

This excerpt is taken from Chapter 11, pages 106–108.

Context: King Zothar of Theres has recently lost his son during the annual Games held in the city of Lament. Devastated by his son's death, Zothar falls into a deep state of grief and desperately searches for anyone who might know a way to bring his son back.

One day, an old crone tells him of a mysterious Lord of Death who dwells in the north, in a place known as the Cave of Skulls. She claims that this being has the power to return the dead to the living. Clinging to the slightest hope, Zothar immediately sets out to find this place and plead with the Lord of Death himself, a being called Nagash.

>At last, he came to an open chamber, which was covered at one end by a web of bone. Green mist flared and twisted in the shadows around him. He held his sword up and advanced – and suddenly the web of bone shattered into a swirling, shrieking mass that surrounded him; a tide of bone-crows clattering their skeletal wings about his head. When they spoke, their voices drilled into his mind and the pain was enough to throw him to his knees.

>

>Who dares trespass into the presence of the lord! Who values his soul so lightly he would do this thing! Zothar pressed his hands to his ears. ‘I am King Zothar, Lord of Theres! The Jewel of the Desert, the City in the Wastes,’ he cried. ‘I seek Nagash, King of the Dead. I have come to demand my son’s soul!’ The bone-crows erupted from around his head, spinning off in a twisting, screaming mass that disappeared into the tunnel behind him. Zothar collapsed, utterly spent. He heard something slouch from the other side of the chamber. He heard the clack of bones, the scrape of claws. He heard the beating of its wings. When Zothar found the courage to look, he saw Nagash.

>

>Like the skeleton of a mighty vulture, it hunched there in the cavern, its wings folded against its chest, its long, sinuous neck rearing up as it peered at him down the scimitar of its beak. Its bones were as stained and yellow as old ivory and it smelled of ancient midnights, of deserts that had been scoured clean by the wind a thousand, thousand years ago. And when he grasped his courage and looked on it, for a moment it seemed to shift in the spectral gloom and look like a man towering above him, wreathed in spirits, laughing with malicious humour through a leering mouth. King Zothar, the vulture said. I salute your bravery, if not your folly, for coming here. Many an age has it been since a hero has taken sword and shield to confront me in like manner…

>

>‘I am no hero,’ Zothar said, shielding his eyes. He dropped his sword. ‘And I am not brave, unless it is grief that gives me courage. I do not confront you, Lord of Death, other than to ask for that which it is in your power to give.’ And what would a mortal ask of Nagash, that he would risk his eternal soul for it? ‘My soul is yours, if you desire it. It is worth nothing to me. It is my son’s soul that is without price to me. Neophron, as was – killed by the preening arrogance of the Jackal Kings in far Lament, on the Obsidian Coast. I would have him returned to me and anything it is in my power to give, you shall have.’

>

>Lament… the vulture mused. The great beak clacked and the murderous lights in its empty eyes flared brightly. The Obsidian Coast… And what would you be prepared to give up for this? What sacrifice will you make, for the restoration of your son? ‘Anything,’ Zothar said. He spoke no lie. ‘My life, my soul.’ Your city…?

>

>Zothar paused. He looked into himself, walked for a moment in the pleasant avenues of Theres once more, stood for a while in the courtyard with its soaring statues of Theres’ ancient kings and heroes. He gazed on the faces of the common folk, the people who looked to him for love and protection.

>

>‘Yes,’ he said, although the word nearly choked him. ‘I would rather Neophron live as a humble beggar wandering the wilds than have him spend eternity in the cold earth, his soul a lost and lonely spirit in the Underworlds. Yes,’ he said. ‘Take Theres and everyone in it if you must. And damn me forever for my choice!’ And you would serve me, at my command, if asked, the vulture said. You would lead your armies in my service and conquer the Obsidian Coast in my name?

>

>‘If need be,’ Zothar said. He felt the grief swell in him, the slack, empty feeling of his sorrow. Grief for Neophron, grief for all he had now condemned. ‘I will serve. I ask only one condition.’ There was a sound like the cold clash of swords and Zothar realised the vulture was laughing. You are bold, King Zothar, I give you that, to ask conditions of Nagash. Speak, then. What is your condition? ‘That Lament is left to my judgement. I will have my revenge against the Jackal Kings and will see the city pulled stone from stone. And at the last, I will drag the Tower of the Moon from its foundations and cast it into rubble.’

>

>Then the bargain is made, the vulture hissed. And the soul of your son will be returned to you… ‘When!’ Zothar demanded. ‘Bring him to me!’ You will not find him here, King Zothar… For I have my conditions too, to seal the compact between us. You will find your son now in far Lament… ‘What riddle is this?’ Zothar cried. He snatched up his sword. Though his spirit quailed in the presence of the Lord of Death, he took a step forward and raised his blade. ‘You seek to cheat me of what we agreed!’

>There is no agreement that is not made on my terms, little human, the vulture laughed. Neophron will return to you, this I promise. But his soul will settle only for a ten-year span and will wither and die in each vessel unless it is released to find new harbour. He died in the Games of Lament, did he not? Very well – he will return to you in the Games of Lament, and as the victor you shall know him. Do not be so hasty to tear the city down, King Zothar, for if you do, you will lose that which guarantees your son’s recurrence.

>

>‘Why do you do this!’ Zothar wept. ‘I will do what you ask, you have my word! Why torment me like this!’ My reasons are my own and they would be far beyond your comprehension, mortal. Now, the vulture hissed, as it shuffled closer. The bargain will be made… Its claws crunched over ancient bones, scattered about the floor of the cavern. Zothar tried to back away, but the fierce fire of the creature’s gaze kept him pinned to the spot. He could not raise his sword. He could not close his eyes. All he could do was stand and watch in horror, as the vulture spread its wings and Nagash gathered him close.

>

>Come to Nagash, it whispered; and Zothar saw only darkness. Come to Nagash, and be transformed…

Yes, I said it, I don't think Neferata is all that impressive when you really think about it. What does she even do?

Like, seriously, she is Nagash's spymaster, rumoured to have spies in Azyr itself, to the point where it is said she knew about the Stormcast Eternals before the Gates of Azyr even opened. That sounds impressive and cool, until you remember that so did Malerion and the Skaven, which technically puts her on the same level as Thanquol. Do I need to say more?

But hey, let's ignore all that. Knowing that the Stormcast would be unleashed upon the Mortal Realms is genuinely useful information for anyone. But for Neferata, someone we're constantly told is incredibly smart, think about what she could have done with it:

Build a spy network to track Stormcast movements before they arrived.

Control mortal rulers so Sigmar found fewer willing allies.

Lure enemies into Stormcast attacks, letting Sigmar's forces destroy rival armies instead of her own.

So what does she actually do with this information? Absolutely nothing.

She just sits on her throne, chuckling to herself about intelligence she would never use, intelligence gained at the modest price of one of her fit pic.

But surely she's at least making use of those connections beyond receiving Azyr's daily morning news, right?

Sort of. She uses her connections to send personal hit squads of Witch Hunters to eliminate vampires who have personally offended her, all without drawing attention to herself. And why? Because at some party, a fellow vampire didn't compliment Neferata quite enough, so now she waste Order of Azyr resources bought with taxes paid by Sigmarites just to have a Witch Hunter dispatched this "horrible injustice" done to her. Really something to behold.

But, I hear you say, what about her personal accomplishments? The kingdoms she's conquered and the armies she's defeated?

Yeah, about that, who actually cares? I mean really, who here genuinely cares about the Shyish city of Lugo, which Neferata conquered by transforming its king into her vampire thrall? I'm fairly certain until right now, nobody here had ever even heard of that city, let alone knew where it was, beyond it being somewhere in Shyish. And you don't need to know, because it will never be brought up again, consigned to a Schrödinger's cat-style purgatory.

As for the enemies she's defeated,show me the model for the Khorne Daemon Prince Graunos. Oh wait, there isn't one. Which means that Neferata has, so far, only fought enemies with no notable presence in the wider narrative, characters used purely as fodder to demonstrate how brilliant she supposedly is, with every plan going perfectly according to plan, with no complications that might force her to adapt on the fly.

So what does she actually spend most of her time on, to the point she is almost entirely absent from the wider events of the Mortal Realms? Oh, you know, invading Mannfred's territory of Carstinia like it's an episode of Pinky and the Brain.

0 feats.

0 relevance.

7,000 failed Carstinia invasion attempts.

Do you think Ravenor is the professor?